Devotion
by darkangel1211
Summary: "You like the way he responds to you, don't you. Like you're the only person in the world that matters... It's a shame really. He doesn't realise that you've been mine from the very beginning." Sherlock / Loki / John, WIP, Part 1 Updated 01/12/13.
1. Prologue: The Storm

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, Marvel or any of the affiliated characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just so inspired that I had to borrow them for a while.**

**Warnings (to be updated per chapter): Illusions and Deceit, Obsessive Behaviour, Triggers, Marking**

**A/N: What the hell am I doing? Why am I posting this?**

**Well... You know when a story just won't leave you alone? Like, when you fall asleep and wake up with it in your head?**

**Creepy!**

**Yes, but so is this story! *spooky voice* Consider yourselves warned.**

**Enjoy! xx**

_"Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you. _  
_Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you. _  
_And without feet I can make my way to you, _  
_without a mouth I can swear your name. _

_Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you _  
_with my heart as with a hand. _  
_Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat. _  
_And if you consume my brain with fire, _  
_I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood." _

- Rainer Maria Rilke

**Prologue: The Storm**

There wasn't really anything special about Sherlock Holmes. Not when he was a one day old new-born and his mother, Marie Antoinette Holmes, fussed over her second son the way any mother would, ensuring he was fed, changed and kept warm during the cold autumn weather. It was true that she learned the different ways he cried when he wanted a particular thing, running through the list until just the tone of her son's voice, or the time of day, was enough to let her know what needed to be done. Until it was as instinctual as her own breathing. But doesn't every doting mother learn this to some degree?

Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, being six years old at the time, had looked over the edge of Sherlock's cot in those coming weeks with the wonder that only a child has, carefully watching the way his mother tended to Sherlock's needs. His father, Siger Holmes, would stand beside Mycroft with a hand on his shoulder and tell him that, as the older brother, he should look after his younger sibling with all the devotion he had for his studies. Wide eyed, Mycroft had nodded to his father's words, and reached a hand into Sherlock's cot, smiling when little fingers wrapped around his thumb and tugged at it.

Marie and Siger were extremely proud of their boys and had good reason to be. Mycroft was an exemplary student at such a young age and quick to learn, so his parents were hoping their second son would follow suit, having already reserved places for Sherlock at Eton College and Oxford University for when he came of age, the same having already been done for Mycroft. Until that time, a private tutor would continue to teach Mycroft until Sherlock was ready for pre-school and then he would mentor the both of them until they were required to start their higher education.

At least, that was the plan.

Yet, as with most things, it all started with a storm.

On a bright morning, three weeks after Sherlock's birth, the news reported a severe thunderstorm was on the way, with winds of up to one hundred miles per hour and huge clouds which would cover the expanse of London, Hampshire and Surrey in regular intervals. People were warned to stay indoors and the Holmes family kept a close watch on the predicted paths of the storms, preparing to face a long period when they would effectively be cut off from the outside world.

On a late October night, flashes of lightening filled the rooms of the mansion and were then almost immediately followed by loud claps of thunder, the noise reverberating inside the walls despite the howls of the wind and the thrashing of the rain on the window panes. Worried for her sons, Marie left her husband's side and wrapped herself in her dressing gown to check on them, catching Mycroft staring out the window in rapt fascination as the lightning bolts cracked across the night sky. She gently urged him back to bed where he would stay warm and safe and, though Mycroft had protested to begin with, his mother opened up the curtains for him so he would still be able to watch the storm. With her encouragement, Mycroft eventually found slumber with the sound of the rain in his ears and his mother gently stroking her fingers through his hair.

Onwards now to Sherlock's room and when she reached his cot, she saw her little boy was fast asleep, his hands curled in the blankets and his shut eyes moving with his dreams. She laid a hand on his chest to feel his breathing, measuring the time between each one, and leant over the cot to kiss Sherlock on his forehead, smoothing a hand over his hair before leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

With the click of the door, the body of the little boy in the cot began to fade, a green light wrapped around the edges of the image until it disappeared. Over by the window nearest the door, a man sat in the rocking chair with a small bundle in his arms, smiling down at Sherlock and wrapping him more securely in his blankets.

"There, there," he soothed when Sherlock began to whimper, disturbed by the thunder and the flashes that were too bright in the small space. Small blue eyes looked up into emerald green ones and Sherlock calmed when the arms began to rock him again, his eyes drifting shut. "My brother is so loud, isn't he?" the man murmured, looking up out the window when another clap of thunder sounded above them. He turned his attention back to Sherlock, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs so his right ankle rested on his left knee. "But you don't need to worry about him," he continued, smoothing a thumb over Sherlock's hair. "I'm here to protect you."

With all the tenderness that Marie had just given the illusion, he raised Sherlock in his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to the baby's forehead, smiling when Sherlock snuffled into the blankets with a lock of the man's black hair twined in his small fingers.

_To be continued_


	2. Part One: Happy Birthday, Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, Marvel or any of the affiliated characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just so inspired that I had to borrow them for a while.**

**Warnings: Please see the A/N in the Prologue for details**

**A/N: I'd like to say a big thank you to all the people who have commented, subscribed and read this story so far! You're all fab and I love you! xxx**

**I will say that, unlike my other fics, this one seems to want short postings for the moment... I have no idea why but I'm going with it and I hope this little instalment meets with approval.**

**Warning: might have triggers, but you knew that already ;-)**

**Enjoy!**

**Part One: Happy Birthday, Sherlock**

If you happened upon Sherlock Holmes before his one year birthday, you really wouldn't have thought there was anything unusual about him. Most children aren't at that age; probably still adjusting to the world and their place in it but, if Sherlock could speak, he would have told you that he certainly didn't lack for anything. His parents were doting, his older brother protective, and just watch when Grand-mère Vernet arrived from France with those little pastries that Sherlock managed to get all over himself and the lounge carpet… Well, he always had liked the vanilla cream filling with the chocolate on top so it was worth the mess in Marie's opinion.

She was also of the firm opinion that she couldn't have asked for a better second son. He hardly ever cried during the night, unless it was because he needed changing or wanted to be fed, and even the busiest of those nights were becoming a thing of the past now. And he was a fast learner. He'd been barely nine months old when he started to walk by himself, although not without a little aid by using the objects around him when he stumbled, and, more often than not, if you wanted to find Sherlock you'd find him in one place alone.

Like Mycroft, Sherlock had developed a fascination with the Holmes library. The hall where the library was based had been renovated since the family had moved in and it now housed over a thousand novels, including everything from scientific journals to children's stories. Mycroft could often be found there lying on one of the sofas with a book perched on his chest and Sherlock would normally walk up to his brother and grab a hold of the cushions so he could listen to his brother read. Sherlock was a long way off from reading to himself at that point, but Mycroft always made an effort to point at the page so Sherlock would begin to understand the correlation between the words Mycroft was saying and how they looked on paper. He would pick it up soon enough, but there was something far more interesting to get out the way first.

The celebration of Sherlock's one year old birthday party and, boy, did Marie have some plans for that.

Celebrations, although small, were of vast importance to the Holmes family; only close relations and friends were invited to the events and 'events' was rather an apt term for them. No expense was spared because money had never been an issue for the Holmes's, but it didn't mean that they spent it on useless trinkets that they'd never use. No, for Sherlock's first birthday he would only have the best, which included a grant from his parents that would come into force when he reached the age of twenty-one; a sum of one hundred thousand pounds no less, to gather interest at ten percent a year at a fixed rate (because his father was incredibly influential in the financial district), which meant that he would be secure in his life up until his retirement. The same had been done for Mycroft so it was only fair that the same be done for Sherlock, but it didn't indicate a lack of affection on his parent's parts. They loved both their sons equally and only wanted the best for them.

As it happened, so did Sherlock's nightly visitor.

You see, Sherlock was such a good child because he hadn't been alone in his own room during the night since the day of his birth. If he cried and couldn't be soothed by the man with dark hair and emerald eyes, only then would his mother come and attend to him, but as Sherlock grew so too did his independence, was good really because the less they had any interruptions, the better.

Birthday celebrations, although extravagant, never lasted long for a child. Over excitement and the fussing from the attendees tend to exhaust them so, by the time night fell, Sherlock was almost asleep and being carried by his father into his room for rest, a toy dog clutched in one hand close to his chest.

Gently now, lowered into cool sheets and changed into night clothes, a new pyjama set to keep the chill off him, and then soft kisses on his brow by his mother and father as they bade their little one a good night and a very happy birthday.

If only Sherlock knew that the best gift was yet to come.

As with all the previous nights, the man did not appear until the door had firmly closed and the threat of being exposed had passed, walking up to Sherlock's cot with his hands clasped behind his back and a small smile on his face. He looked down at Sherlock for a moment, watching his breathing and the sleepy way he tried to keep his eyes open when he realised he wasn't alone, never crying out in fear but a small smile suffusing his face when Sherlock realised who he was looking at.

"Hello, little Sherlock," the man murmured, reaching his right hand down to place it on Sherlock's chest. "Well, you've had a busy day haven't you. All those people cooing over you… All those gifts that you've already forgotten about. Don't worry though; I've got a present for you that you'll never forget." His hand measured the deepness of Sherlock's breaths in sleep for a minute more and then slowly crept down to the waistline of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, sliding a finger under the elastic on Sherlock's left side and easing the fabric down his legs. When the soft skin of Sherlock's thighs was exposed, the man brought his right hand up to his mouth and licked at his thumb, getting it wet with his saliva before bringing that digit down to Sherlock's left thigh, the tender part where the femoral vein was, and pressed his thumb into it.

A faint thrumming passed through the man's body, a faint green glow sliding down his thumb and into the skin where it was pressed, the thin line of energy passing into Sherlock's body and swirling into a small symbol the size of a fingernail. As small as it was, the design was unmistakable and flared with a bright light before it seemed to sink down into Sherlock's skin without a trace. But the man knew it was there, buried in Sherlock's flesh, never to be removed; as Sherlock grew up, so would the symbol and the energy contained inside it, the two serpents coiled around each other a distinctive mark that would forever define Sherlock in the years to come.

But that was later and this was now and there was so much fun to be had before then. The man pulled Sherlock's bottoms back up and leant over the cot, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead and smiling when the energy responded to his proximity. "Happy birthday, Sherlock."

_To be continued_

**A/N: Can you tell what it is yet?**

**Yes, I totally went there and marked Sherlock with Loki's symbol. My little nod to the lore of the Norse, if you will, while staying within the Marvel universe.**

**Totally suits Loki, by the way. And now it suits Sherlock... Naughty Loki!**


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